


The After-School Special

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Plot What Plot, Teaching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Quinto, head of social studies, gives Coach Pine a hand when the sports faculty's short-handed and the equipment room needs a stock take...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The After-School Special

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Pinto Pornapalooza II, organized by beederiffic on LJ.

"Oh, god, Kerri. Turkey and cheese again?"

Zach looks up from his salad and peers over at John's lunch as he pulls it from his usual brown paper bag. Every day, John's wife packs him the exact same lunch, and every day, John acts as if he's surprised. The routine is almost comforting in its consistency.

"You were expecting rack of lamb?" he asks, smirking. "Honestly, John. You should be grateful to have a wife who's willing to make you lunch every morning. Hang onto that woman, because she's a saint."

"Hey, I show her how grateful I am all the time. You know, mostly in the bedroo—"

"Please don't finish that sentence," Anton groans, sitting down beside them with a sigh. "This is a place of learning. Innocent ears are all around."

"Quiet, _sub_ ," John sneers.

Zach can't help a giggle. He and John were quick to befriend Anton when he first arrived to replace Bruce, who's been out ever since he broke his leg in a skiing accident, of all things. As far as they were concerned, taking Anton under their collective wing was a matter of necessity; the guy barely looks older than most of the students at this school, and there's already been a rash of swooning girls whenever he goes for a stroll through the halls between classes. Zach's also heard through the grapevine that Anton's class discussions on _The Scarlet Letter_ usually result in more longing stares and dreamy sighs from his students than any actual discussion about Hester Prynne or that Dimmesdale guy.

He glances around the teacher's lounge as John and Anton banter and his gaze lands on the corner table, where Karl and Zoe from the foreign language department always sit, staring at everyone and whispering to each other.

"What's with those two?" Anton asks, when he sees where Zach is looking. "It feels like they're judging me with their eyes."

"That's because they are," Zach says. He sips his Diet Coke and spears some salad with his fork. "It's what those two do. They stare, they judge, they gossip to each other in romance languages."

John lifts his eyebrows appraisingly. "Think they're screwing?"

"Don't," Zach says, shaking his head. "Seriously. Don't be like them."

"Listen, man. My kids are taking an exam today. I need _something_ to think about while steam pours out of their ears and they demonstrate just how little I've taught them over the past two months."

"You're the horniest chemistry teacher I've ever met," Anton says. He looks across the room and gets immediately distracted by the sight of Rachel Nichols walking in. "Oh, shit, hot art teacher alert, brb."

"Brb? You really are twelve, aren't you?" John scoffs. But Anton doesn't reply, already scurrying toward the door to greet Rachel. John looks after him and then grins, nudging Zach hard in the arm. "Oh, shit, and there's your boyfriend, too."

Zach swallows hard. Unfortunately, he knows exactly what John is talking about— _who_ he's talking about. He turns his head in time to see Chris Pine, the insanely hot P.E. coach, walk in behind Rachel. He's built as fuck and wearing a criminally tight T-shirt in the school's colors of hunter green and gold, plus gym shorts that show off his alluring, skinny chicken legs. Zach takes a moment to greedily rake his eyes over Chris' body for the umpteenth time—the body he fantasizes about during any and all quiet moments, from lazy morning showers to classroom pop quizzes. He gets a little nod and smile from Chris in return, which makes Zach's stomach flip-flop, even as he looks away guiltily and slurps at his soda.

John leans over, smug as ever, and whispers, "So, are you two going to the prom, or what? Do you need me to chaperone?"

"Shut your trap," Zach hisses. "You're the worst person ever."

"Why, because I'm in favor of the idea of you getting some? Yeah, you're right; I'm a monster. I'm your worst enemy."

Zach eats his salad moodily, muttering with his mouth full. "It doesn't even matter. He's straight."

"That tiny T-shirt begs to differ," John says, smirking. "Plus, he smiled at you. He's _always_ smiling at you. Don't tell me you don't notice."

"Even if he does, he's probably just being nice. There's no reason for him to be interested in me. He's a gym teacher, a total jock, and I'm a nerdy social studies teacher who wears skinny ties and glasses."

"Okay, hold the phone." John scoots his chair closer to the table and holds out two fingers. "A: It's not as if you graduated college last week, like Anton probably did. You're the head of the fucking social studies department, which is serious business, okay? And B: Are you a fifteen-year-old girl? Seriously, are you? This isn't _She's All That_ or _Grease_ or whatever teen movie you think we're living out, because—news flash!—we're grown-ups, remember? Jocks and nerds can freely mingle once they reach our age, or so I've heard. I know it's difficult to remember that, since we chose to spend our lives in this festering sinkhole of adolescent hormones, for whatever reason, but we can rise above, Zachary. _You_ can rise above."

"Don't be sexist," Zach grumbles. He pushes away his lunch, thoroughly embarrassed, and makes a split decision to leave and spend the rest of the lunch period in his classroom, grading papers and hating John and/or life. "Enjoy your boring lunch and also die in a fire. I'll see you at—"

"Hey, excuse me, everyone!" someone suddenly calls out. Zach looks up and realizes the person waving his hands to get everyone's attention is Chris, his muscles flexing temptingly all over the place, oh god. When Chris is sure everyone is listening, he flashes one of his bright, cheery smiles. "Hey, sorry, folks. Just a minute of your time. The P.E. faculty's a little short-handed right now, what with Coach Pegg out with the flu, and the equipment room's in desperate need of a stock take...so I'm wondering if anyone would be willing to stay a little late today and help me out with that? I promise it's not too much heavy lifting and I'll buy you a beer for your troubles, or you can just hold me to a return favor at any time. What do you think? Anyone willing?"

Zach blinks, feeling heat bloom in his chest as he actually considers it for a split second. But it's not even worth thinking about—just asking for trouble, really—so he ducks his head and does his best to look disinterested, reaching for his messenger bag on the floor. John takes that moment to kick the leg of Zach's chair, hard enough to make him flail, his hand flying up into the air as he struggles to keep his balance.

"Hey!" John exclaims. "Looks like you've got a volunteer, Coach Pine."

"What?!" Zach gets his footing again and looks between them in a slight panic. Chris gives him another one of those genuine, winning smiles.

"Hey, wow. Zach—uh, sorry, Mr. Quinto. If you could, that'd be great. Really great. I won't keep you here too late, I promise. Probably no longer than an hour and a half, tops. And I'm good for that beer."

Zach looks up at him and adjusts his glasses, highly flustered. "Zach is fine," he says quickly. He wants to back out of it somehow, explain that he didn't mean to volunteer and that John is an asshole who engineered all of this and fuck if he's spending that much time alone with someone he thinks about regularly in the shower. But then, Chris looks so pleased and grateful, and man, saying no at this point would be really shitty of him, wouldn't it? Plus, everyone is looking at him and waiting for his answer. Seriously, _everyone_. Zach exhales and smiles slightly, trying not to grit his teeth. "Yeah. An hour and a half should be fine. No beer necessary, I'll just... I'll be there."

"Great!" Chris grins and actually gives him a thumbs up, and Zach really hates the way his groin tightens in response to such a ridiculous gesture. "Just meet me in the stock room after last period."

"Yep, you got it," Zach says weakly. He nods and makes a point of not watching Chris walk away, as much as he wants to ogle that perfectly round ass of his. He catches sight of Karl and Zoe instead, who are very pointedly staring at him, clearly already mid-gossip. Karl actually smirks and _winks_ at Zach.

"So, how much do you love me right now?" John asks, munching on a potato chip, obtuse as all get-out. "You don't have to thank me. I mean, it'd be nice, but I don't expect a card or anything."

Zach looks at him blankly for a few seconds, then stands up with his bag and uses it to knock the remainder of John's lunch off the table, much to his highly vocal dismay. He's sure the foreign language folks are going to have a field day with that one, but he just can't bring himself to care.

*

Ten minutes after the last bell has sounded and Zach still hasn't pried himself away from the men's room mirror. He fusses with his tie, ultimately deciding to take it off so he looks more casual and ready to work. He wishes he could get rid of his glasses, too, but he doesn't have his contacts on him and he'll really seem like an idiot if he can't see well enough to help Chris count a bunch of tennis rackets.

Also, John keeps texting him stupid things, like, _Ask him about his balls. Get it? Balls?_

 _how you ever obtained a masters in ed is beyond me_ , Zach texts back. Then he shoves his phone down to the bottom of his bag.

By the time he gets to the gymnasium stock room, Chris is already in the midst of things, clipboard in hand as he takes count of the items on a mid-level shelf. Much to Zach's surprise, he's wearing glasses, too. They're an interesting contrast to the tight T-shirt and athletic shorts. If it's possible, Zach finds him more attractive than ever. He slumps slightly in the doorway and clutches the strap of his messenger bag, knocking lightly on the door with his free hand.

"Hey!" Chris exclaims, looking up with a wide smile. "I thought maybe you forgot about me. No tie this time, huh?"

"I wouldn't—I didn't, no," Zach says. He touches his chest self-consciously. "Yeah, no, I took it off. Feels kind of stifling once the day is over, you know?"

"Huh, too bad. It was nice."

Zach purses his lips and silently curses himself. He totally should have left the tie on. He puts his bag on the floor and decides to quickly change the subject. "So, uh... What do you need me to do?"

"Take these." Chris hands Zach the clipboard and pencil, then pulls off his glasses, folding and tucking them into his shirt collar. The thin fabric sags a bit with the weight of the dark-colored plastic and Zach has a fleeting fantasy of reaching out and ripping the shirt right down the middle. He clutches the clipboard to his chest instead and tries to focus on what Chris is saying. "I'll do the lifting and counting. All you need to do is jot down the numbers I tell you. Nothing too heavy duty, just like I promised."

"Well, I mean...if you needed me to lift something, I _could_. Something heavy, I mean." Zach flicks the eraser-end of the pencil and shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant. "I know I'm a social studies teacher, but..."

Chris looks at him and nods—and if Zach isn't imagining things, it seems like a fairly appreciative look. He's probably imagining it.

"I make no assumptions, man. I'm just trying to be nice. Plus, you look like you work out. You lift weights?"

"No," Zach says quickly, then immediately regrets it. "Well, not often. I mostly jog and do some, uh, yoga."

"Yoga's _great_ exercise. I wish I were flexible enough to try it."

Zach hopes like hell that he's not blushing. "You don't need to be that flexible. I mean, I'm sure you are, more so than you think. I mean, you look like you could...um." He laughs nervously and looks down at the inventory sheet before him. "So, what are we counting first?"

Chris laughs too, which should embarrass Zach even more, but it's such a lovely sound that he gets distracted. "I already did the basketballs and footballs. How about tennis balls next? They're all in those boxes," he says, gesturing. Zach bites his lip and wishes futilely that Chris would stop saying _balls_.

"Sure. I like tennis." _What?!_

"Yeah? You play?" Chris bends at the waist to slide a few boxes out from their storage space so he can open them up, his perfectly peach-like derriere making its presence known to Zach, God, and all other witnesses with a bird's-eye view. Zach licks his lips and looks away, flustered again.

"Uh, once in a while. I mean, probably not as much as you. You probably play all kinds of sports."

"I do have other interests, you know." Chris peers up at him, an eyebrow arched, full lips pursed and completely unamused. "I'm not just some dumb jock. I went to college. A good college, at that."

Zach gapes, his heart thudding wildly in his chest while his stomach churns with horror. "Oh, jesus, no, I didn't..." ...mean to imply Chris was dumb? Did he? Or maybe he's just been sweating their differences so much that he's come to some kind of fucked-up conclusion about that Chris is beneath him? Intellectually beneath him, that is. Not the other kind. Fuck, he's only making it worse. Zach grimaces and runs a hand through his hair; he's about to get the shakes here. "Honestly, I never meant to imply that you weren't—"

"Holy shit," Chris says, eyes wide and sparkling. He grins into the back of his hand. "You're _way_ too easy to mess with, Zach. Did you really think I was upset? You look like you're about to have a seizure. Seriously, wow."

"Oh, for..." Zach groans and shakes his head at his own gullibility. "Not cool, Pine. Stop laughing." But Chris can't, still wracked with giggles. Zach should be annoyed but it's actually kind of endearing. _Chris_ is endearing, even though he seems to be able to read Zach like a book. "Okay, okay!" He punctuates his words with a rap of the pencil against the clipboard. "Can we please forget any of that just happened and get back to dealing with your balls?"

Said directive does absolutely nothing to quell the giggle storm.

"God, I'm sorry," Chris says, trying to quiet down when Zach rolls his eyes. "You're funny, though. I didn't know you were so funny."

Zach exhales; neither did he. "Yeah, yeah. I'm a laugh riot."

*

After that, they both settle down and get to work, Chris bending and arching all over the place as he takes stock of the sports equipment. Zach does his best not to ogle him too much and diligently writes down the numbers he's fed. The stock room is stuffy and warm and the sight of Chris' toned body doesn't help matters. After a while, Zach has to open up a couple of buttons on his shirt and roll his sleeves up, exposing his forearms. The dark hair there stands out in contrast to his white shirt and for the first time ever, Zach feels self-conscious about his arms, wondering what Chris might think of them. As if he needed a new body part to be neurotic about.

Luckily, the conversation is decent—small talk with a banter-ish edge to it. They gossip about other faculty members and Zach is embarrassed to admit that he hardly knows anything about the physical education department. The clique mentality of high school holds true where the faculty is concerned as well.

"So John's your best friend around these parts?" Chris asks, rifling through a bucket of baseball bats. "He seems a little crazy, but fun. Seven in here."

Zach dutifully writes down the number. "That's a fair assessment. That's all you have? Seven baseball bats for an entire school?"

"Well, I have this other bucket with...four." He sighs and shrugs, wiping the light sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. Zach tries not to quiver visibly. "Budget cuts. Everyone's gotta share, whether they like it or not. It's a real shame."

"Tell me about it." He looks up at the top shelf and sees a slim box poking out, all the way at the back. "Hey, wait, I think there are a few more up here."

"Really? Great! Let me—"

"No, it's okay, I've got it." Zach steps onto the footstool without thinking and hands Chris the clipboard so he can reach for the stray box with both hands. It's been shoved all the way back against the wall and he has to stretch his body, his shirt pulling out of its careful tuck. When he finally coaxes it out with some careful finger plucking, he makes a sound of triumph. "Looks like a full box, but I'm not sure. Want me to pull it down?"

Chris doesn't answer right away, unusually quiet, so Zach glances down to see what's up. He's surprised to find Chris staring at him—in the direction of the skin exposed by his stretching. When Chris realizes he's being spoken to, they share a quick, shocked glance, and then Zach lets go of the box in his hand, causing it to slide from its precarious balance on the shelf. He yelps in surprise and moves to take a step back, totally forgetting he's perched on a footstool, but Chris is there when he stumbles, his strong arms wrapping around Zach's body to shield his fall. In a extraordinary moment of clumsiness, Zach manages to trip over his own feet as he hits the floor. He lurches into Chris' weight, sending both of them toppling against the far wall.

When Zach shakes off the dizziness, he realizes he's got Chris pinned, chest to chest, their chins and cheeks and lips mere centimeters away from each other. Chris is a little...well, a little flushed. And, hey, yes, there's his penis. His semi-hard penis, sheathed by a thin, clingy layer of fabric. The realization sets off an equal reaction in Zach's trousers, which he's pretty sure is related to some kind of science lesson his students learned earlier today. They look at each other and laugh awkwardly, neither of them making a move to remedy the situation. From this close up, Zach can see the shallow pool of sweat resting in Chris' clavicle, shining in the fluorescent light, as if it's begging to be mopped up by Zach's tongue.

"Sorry," he blurts out. "I, um. Fell."

"Yeah, I noticed. You're okay, though, right?"

"Yeah, are you? I knocked into you pretty hard. Shit, your glasses..."

"It takes more than that to put me out of commission. And I put them away a while ago." Chris smiles faintly and then gestures between them. "We're, um..."

"Oh, god, I'm sorry." Zach takes that as a cue to jump back from their compromising position. He squeak in surprise when Chris grabs him by his shirt and pulls him back in. He grits his teeth to hold back an embarrassing moan when their hips make contact again. "Wait, what are you...?"

"I thought...shit. You're not married, are you? I didn't see a ring. Hold up; are you straight?"

"No, but...I thought _you_ were straight!"

"Oh, so you thought I was a _straight_ dumb jock? Seriously, Zach. How are you so cute?" Chris grins, brighter than the hot lights overhead, and Zach just wants to sway into him and kiss his face off. "Huh. This is, like, the beginning to the most awkward porno ever."

"You think I'm cute?" Zach blinks, trying to keep up with all of this. He tilts his hips forward experimentally and yes, _fuck_ yes, Chris thinks he's cute. Realization, belated at best, finally dawns. "You were staring at me," he murmurs.

Chris licks his lips and Zach only gets to admire his plump lips for two seconds before strong fingers grasp the back of his neck and pull him in for a hard, hot kiss. Zach lets out that embarrassing moan he's been holding in when Chris' tongue invades his mouth. After a brief moment of doubt, he sucks on it strongly, which has Chris grunting deliciously and tugging him even closer. Zach shudders as their hips rock together. He has no idea what the hell he's doing here, living out some sort of triple-X fantasy after school hours in a small, hot room in the basement. All he knows is that he doesn't want to leave and he hopes like hell that the stock room door is locked.

As if reading his mind, Chris breaks the kiss after a few moments to gasp, "This is inappropriate, isn't it?"

"Yes," Zach answers, nodding and breathing hard. "But it's hard to be objective when you're squeezing my ass with both hands."

"Fair point." Chris kisses him again and then reaches up to grab Zach's wrist. Then he nuzzles against Zach's forearm, his cheek and mouth rubbing back and forth against the dark, bristly hair. "Just...everything about you is so hot; you know that? Your skinny tie and those giant glasses...and these arms, _shit_. Are you trying to kill me here?"

"I promise I'm not. I want you alive right now, more than anything else." Zach swallows and uses his free hand to palm Chris' perfectly round ass. His voice sounds as wrecked and breathless as he feels. "What do you want?"

"I want you to take your pants off, Mr. Quinto."

Zach can manage that. Sort of. He works on his belt and fly, even as Chris distracts him with warm, sucking kisses all along his neck and jaw. Chris mouths at the exposed skin above Zach's opened shirt collar and reaches under the hem to rub his thumbs over the dark trail of hair that runs down Zach's stomach. It becomes a bit of a struggle to pay attention to the task at hand, but soon enough, Zach's trousers are pooled around his ankles, leaving him in boxer briefs that show off just how excited he is about the current situation. Chris' shorts make for easy removal; he yanks them down, revealing a pair of Jockeys straining around what looks like a pretty big cock. The sight makes Zach's mouth water. He coaxes Chris' head back and lines up their hips again, a shock of pleasure bursting behind his closed eyelids as he thrusts against that hot, cotton-clad bulge. The noise that tumbles out of Chris' mouth is kind of unbelievable so Zach does it again, dropping his head forward to lick greedily at the sweat pooled in Chris' clavicle, just as he dreamed about. Chris' clean scent fills his nostrils and makes him rock harder; he can feel the strong grip on his hips intensifying. Chris scratches just beneath the waistband of his underwear and Zach gasps, nipping the juncture of Chris' neck and shoulder.

"Fuck," Chris whispers, his hips jerking forward as the cotton of his briefs gets damp. "I could come just like this."

"Could you really?" Zach teases. It's enjoyable, seeing Chris like this—all needy and strung out, hips cocked as if he's begging for more. Actually, "enjoyable" doesn't even begin to describe it. It's fucking tantalizing.

Zach pulls down Chris' briefs on a whim, the hard cock trapped inside bouncing out and standing at attention, and kisses away the whimper that leaves Chris' lips. He quickly wets two fingers in his mouth and reaches between Chris's thighs, sliding them along his perineum and toward his asshole. Chris shudders with a bitten-off curse, spreading his legs as far as he can with his shorts and underwear around his ankles, useless to do anything at this point but hold on to Zach for dear life. Zach licks at Chris' open mouth until he reels him into a wet, hungry kiss. He all but grinds his hips against Chris', stroking rhythmically behind his balls, circling the twitching muscle of his entrance. Chris bites down on Zach's bottom lip and then throws his head back with a loud moan that anyone in or around the gymnasium could hear, going rigid as he comes all over himself, staining his tiny T-shirt.

"Holy shit," Zach murmurs, transfixed at the sight of Chris as he slows his movements.

"Don't curse," Chris replies, gasping to catch his breath, his dick twitching. "S'too hot."

"It's hot when I curse?"

"Kind of, yeah."

Chris grins lopsidedly and Zach can't take it anymore; he has to get some relief. He pushes his underwear down his thighs awkwardly and tries to give Chris a meaningful look, a _Hey, do you think you could touch me before I explode?_ kind of look. Chris shakes his head and grabs Zach's shoulders, reversing their positions. Zach leans back against the wall and watches with a shaky moan as Chris sinks to his knees.

"Hey," Chris says, eyes bright again. "You know what else dumb jocks are good at? Sucking cock."

"You're not a dumb—oh, fuck, shit, god," Zach blathers, as Chris leans in and takes the head of his dick between his lips in a firm suckle. He swirls his tongue once and then smirks, rubbing the tip against his lips.

"You and the cursing," he mutters. "Don't stop."

 _Can do_ , Zach wants to say, but instead it's more like, "Chris, fucking hell," as he's swallowed up by what turns out to be an extremely talented mouth on Coach Pine. And to think, all this time he's been dithering around, telling himself that the guy in the skin-tight T-shirts and striped gym shorts is straight, just because he knows how to shoot hoops and play football. He's an idiot, for sure, but he's not going to dwell on it—mostly because Chris is currently sucking all coherent thought out of his brain by way of his cock. Zach looks down through half-lidded eyes as Chris goes to town on him, not holding anything back, bobbing his head and lapping all along his length. He was already close before, just from watching Chris lose it, and now it's not going to take long for him to fall apart as well. It's just...this is _Chris Pine_ , the buff P.E. teacher he fantasizes about in the _shower_ , for Christ's sake. He's here and on his knees and worshipping Zach's dick, flicking his tongue beneath the sensitive ridge as he plays teasingly with Zach's balls, and yeah, this really isn't bound to last much longer.

"Chris," Zach grunts, squeezing his broad shoulder. "I'm gonna come. I'm coming."

Chris doesn't pull off, just makes a sound of approval and strokes Zach's shaft as he continues to suck on the head. He does this thing with his tongue and his cheeks that Zach can't really fathom, though it feels fucking _amazing_. Zach clutches at Chris with both hands as his orgasm hits like a tidal wave and he shoots hard between Chris' stretched lips. When he blinks his eyes open again, Chris is wiping at his mouth sloppily with the back of his hand, looking quite pleased with himself. Zach laughs and sags against the wall.

"You jock," he says. "I bet you drink milk straight out of the carton, too."

Chris smiles wickedly. "Maybe I do." He helps Zach get back into his underwear and pants and then guides him down to the floor, where they lean against each other and share a lingering kiss. "Not exactly how I pictured that happening," Chris says, "but I can't complain."

Zach adjusts his glasses, fighting a blush. "You pictured it? I never imagined I would be your type."

"You're definitely my type. Funny, smart, and hot. That's my type. And, listen." Chris tilts his head and touches Zach's knee. "As much as I can tell you love the gym outfits, mind if I put on a shirt and tie and take you out for dinner later this week?"

"I'd love that, actually," Zach says. Especially because he's willing to bet Chris' ass looks amazing in a suit. He looks around when he hears a beeping sound and realizes it's coming from his phone, which is still stuffed into his bag, a few feet away. He murmurs an apology and reaches for it, just in case it's an emergency. It turns out to be a text from John. Scratch that—four texts, the last one being, _Jeez, are you still there?? Did you ask him about his balls, or what?_ "Oh, jesus," Zach groans, just before Chris reaches over and snatches the phone away. "Hey!"

"I see we have a fan." Chris grins and types something in reply, holding Zach at bay when he tries to grab it back. "Okay, okay, here. I've gotta change my shirt and then let's finish up so we can get out of here and I can buy you that beer."

"You'd better," Zach huffs. He takes an appreciative moment to watch Chris stand and stretch before looking down at the new exchange on his phone's screen.

 _Hey John, this is Chris. He did a little more than just ask, if you catch my drift. Let your imagination run wild with that one._

 _...ZACH, CALL ME RIGHT NOW._

Zach tilts his head and shuts off his phone. "You know, it might be too soon to tell, Chris," he says, "but I think I like you."


End file.
